A Case of the Heart
by gingerbritishgypsyelf
Summary: A companion/second fic to "A Worthwhile Experiment". Sherlock and Irene's lives take an interesting turn, moving them from the half-domestic life of the past few years to fully back into criminal investigation. (My OCs are the nanny and children, and there are no romantic ties between them and any canon characters.) ADLOCK PAIRING.
1. A Case of the Heart

**A Case of the Heart**

(Companion to _A Worthwhile Experiment_)

It was the silence that let Irene know something was amiss. Even when Lily took the children out, there was some sound—Pan's claws clicking on the floor as he came to meet her, the breeze through an open window, the hum of the bread machine Lily bought second-hand and used at least bi-weekly. The front hall was stuffy and warm—odd because Lily usually opened the windows on pretty days, despite Sherlock's complaints that the breezes messed up his papers. The rug showed fresh vacuum tracks, little shoes were lined up next to the radiator in two sizes along with a pair of Lily's well-worn Wellington boots.

A shiver ran up her spine and though Irene tried to shake it off, she couldn't dismiss the feeling that something was not quite right. She whistled with false cheer, calling the dog's name through the house.

"Pan? Come here boy."

There wasn't even the rustle of the dog scooting off the couch which he was decidedly not allowed to be on, a usual sound when anyone arrived home early.

_You're being silly,_ Irene told herself, but she pulled her mobile from her pocket and dialed Lily's number anyway. She and Sherlock had taken a weekend trip for him to solve a case and her to get out of London for a few days. It wasn't uncommon and Lily had shrugged off the fact that her day off was being moved to mid-week, encouraging the couple to go.

The phone rang several times before a tiny electronic voice informed her that the phone was out of service.

_Breathe, _she reminded herself. _Probably a misdial. I'll try again._

She selected Lily's number from her contacts and hit 'send' before holding it to her ear once more, waiting as it rang, rang, and the electronic voice informed her once more that the phone was out of service.

Pocketing the mobile, she swallowed carefully and walked through the pristine house to the kitchen. Everything was spotless, shining, and cleaner than Irene had seen it since the two children had taken a weekend with John and Mary. Something was amiss, she could feel it in the pit of her stomach. It was too perfect, too clean. But there—the kitchen table, a sheet of white paper. Nearly collapsing with relief, Irene rushed over to the paper—most certainly a note from the nanny explaining where she and the children were. Perhaps a day trip to Cardiff or the sea, some picnic lunch in a historic garden or a romp around a park? Yes, certainly that was where they were.

Against the clean white paper was black text, standard font. Instead of the hand-written explanation she had hoped for, Irene only read four words in Lily's precise penmanship.

**_You don't deserve them._**

**-Before-**

_ "You could at least pretend to care about your son," Irene remarked sharply as Sherlock slowly inhaled cigarette smoke and blew it into the London fog. _

_ "You wouldn't believe a word I said regardless, so why should I?"_

_ "Human decency."_

_ "Your sentiment is showing and it's a dreadful look on you."_

_ Pulling her mask on would be losing, so she didn't. Instead she sneered at him, _

_ "At least I'm capable of wearing it."_

_ "Willing and capable are two very different things."_

_ "Your sexual abilities have certainly proven that."_

_ His response was cut off by the swirl of her coat as she called over her shoulder, _

_ "You're visiting him this week or I'll have to resort to less subtle methods than running into you on a street corner."_

_ He was going to tell her that she didn't know the meaning of the word subtle but she was gone and there he was on a London street corner smoking a cigarette so Mrs. Hudson wouldn't badger him and John wouldn't turn up to scold him for smoking or for not mentioning his son. She was gone in the fog and there was not a word he could say about it, but there in his chest, that damned sentiment which he again forced down. Every time he saw her, every time he went to see their son it got harder to push down the feeling of if not sentiment, at least mild affection, a lesser version of what he felt for Mrs. Hudson or John. _

_ In his mind palace he had turned the problem over and over, debating what he could delete, what he could bury, what he could keep in his memory. Very little was delete-able and it seemed that whenever he tried to remove the more...delicate...memories of Ms. Adler, there she was with her crop in her battle dress and emerging from his mind palace was embarrassing due to facts he cared not go into. _

_ He came to see Toby after hours of studying his cries, though not because Ms. Adler had told him to. He refused food and accepted tea and when he was finally comfortable in the sitting room, his son on his chest, skin-to-skin, in came Irene with her smirk and innuendo. Then as Toby cried and the nanny cradled him and carried him away they were sniping at each other with cold intellect and razor-words. Nanny, unimportant. Food, unimportant. Tea, unimportant. His son, Tobias. Important. Irene Adler. The Woman. Important. _

_ Sharp words, whirling gears in his mind, the game the game the GAME they played it was everything. _

_ "Serotonin, oxytocin, progesterone."_

_ "Spouting chemical names isn't helping your case. You're losing."_

_ "Those chemicals are instrumental in child brain development."_

_ "Which you wouldn't know unless you'd researched it."_

_ "It's incredibly relevant to criminal cases. Parental bonds, bonds between partners, the simple act of touch can persuade someone you are friend or foe. It is relevant."_

_ "You couldn't convince someone you were a friend if you tried."_

_ "I have convinced several, I'll have you know."_

_ "Convince me then, Mr. Holmes."_

_ "You already have negative bias and furthermore you don't want to be convinced."_

_ "That sounds very much like an excuse."_

_ "Sit down," he ordered._

_ Raising an eyebrow, she sank onto the couch and waited, kicking off her heels with a self-satisfied smirk._ I've beaten you_, her eyes seemed to say._

_ He sat next to her and drew one of her bare feet into his lap, studied it, and began to knead the muscles along the arch of her foot, the tendons along the sides and up through the middle. Irene bit back a sigh of relief and instead left her eyebrow raised as she stared him down._

_ "You think that a foot massage is going to convince me you're a friend?"_

_ "Your tone of voice has dropped significantly, your heart rate has decreased, and the muscles in your shoulders, neck, and face are more relaxed than they were before I began this exercise."_

_ "I'm sitting. Of course I'm more relaxed and have a slower heartbeat."_

_ Sherlock pressed his thumb into the arch of her foot and kneaded circles up to the ball of her foot._

_ "I'm a dominatrix, Sherlock. You can't use my body as a weapon against me. That's my job."_

_ "Perhaps I can't seduce you, but I know the human body's muscles, tendons, nerve endings. I can make your body associate this touch with relaxation, and make that connection to a non-threatening person."_

_ "You think you're cleverer than you are."_

_ He worked the muscles of her foot for a long while as the silence dragged on before switching to her other foot. When they were both done, she leaned off the side of the sofa and lifted his leg into her lap._

_ "If you're going to manipulate my nervous system, I'm returning the favor. No cheating, Sherlock."_

_ They were quiet a long while before the silence became comfortable, before he realized that he had no idea how to handle the fact that he would have to see her frequently for at least the next eighteen years of his child's life. He could barely access her room in his mind palace without his body betraying him, how was he supposed to deal with frequent in-person interaction. _

_ Little did he know, she was thinking something very similar._

**-After-**

Her fingers shook and though she set the paper back where she had found it and backed out of the house, careful not to touch anything, panic rose in her chest. Pulling on her armor, she forced the shaking to stop, dialed Sherlock's number, waited for him to answer.

Voicemail.

Voicemail.

Voicemail.

"What." He sounded irritated. "I'm in the middle of a very delicate experiment."

"They're gone."

"What?"

"Toby, Sophia, Lily, Pan. There was a note. They're not here."

"Well I'm sure they'll be back soon, so if you'll excuse me."

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, I need you here _now_." Ice was warmer than her voice and steel was softer. He did not reply, merely hung up the phone. Less than ten minutes later when he arrived on the curb, clothing mussed as though he had dressed in a hurry, he was all business.

"Did you move anything?"

"The note. I tried to put it back where it was."

He swept past her and into the house, and though she followed, it seemed he no longer saw her. He saw the carpet (vacuum tracks, not walked on except for the Woman), the thermostat on the wall (two degrees warmer than usual and turned off), the banister for the stairs (polished, still smelled of furniture oil). He moved through the hall (pictures straight, dusted recently), and into the kitchen (floor mopped, sink clean, dishwasher empty, table clean except for the note—moved before Irene had touched it, likely by whoever cleaned the house).

"Three," he told her. "That was cleverer than I would have given her credit for."

"She can't have done this," Irene said, voice calmer than she felt. "She's cared for them both since they were born. She only ever complained when you drugged her and Pan for an experiment and when we disappear unexpectedly."

"She never complains, has only asked for a raise once, works around our schedule, and made our rooftop into a—" he stopped mid-sentence and bolted from the kitchen, up the stairs, up up up to the rooftop garden Lily had so lovingly cultivated over the years where...nearly everything was missing. A few pots containing common plants and herbs sat in a corner but the sprawling Eden that Lily had constructed over her time working in the house was gone. There were pots here and there with dirt at the bottom, but apart from the common plants and anything growing on a trellis, there was no evidence of the garden home Lily had created for herself.

"Last time you were up here?"

"It's been a while."

"She's been working on this for weeks. It would have taken at least that long to move and ensure that all the plants were transported well. If she took the time to move them, she took the time to make sure they survived the trip."

"Facts."

"It's what I work with."

"No deductions?"

"I need _time_, Irene." His voice cracked like a whip and it stung like one as well. She didn't flinch, though anyone else would have.

"Time is a luxury we don't have. If they leave the country, they could disappear."

"Why do you think I need time? If I make an incorrect deduction, if I'm off by even a few minutes on the flight time or the airport terminal, we might never find them."

"You found me."

"I knew you were going to disappear."

"And you didn't see this coming?"

"Would you just _shut up_ for a minute? Please, I'm trying to bloody _think_!"

She fell silent and he scanned the rooftop before going downstairs to Lily's room, where he took in every spare detail, opened her computer and checked her history (deleted) and in her wastebasket (emptied). He scanned for rogue fibers, anything out of place, a smell even. He tore through Toby's room, then the nursery, picking up any detail he could scrounge from the thrice-cleaned house. After he stalked out of the nursery and into the hall, he met Irene's gaze with cold blue eyes.

"She went to Heathrow."

"What flight?"

"She's flying to America."

"When?"

"Morning flight. Yesterday, if the clothes she packed for the children are any indication."

"So what now?"

"Mycroft."

**So, any thoughts? This is the big opener. I've rewritten parts of it over and over and it's still not as perfect as I want but I figured I'd keep moving on and work on making the next chapter better. **


	2. Mycroft

Mycroft

When the car pulled up at Mycroft's offices, Sherlock didn't even hesitate to step out of the car and head for the building, coat billowing behind him. Irene had no issue keeping up in her heels, her face impassive, hiding the fact that she knew if Sherlock was asking for his brother's help, it was serious indeed. It was something best left unspoken, and as he punched the elevator button to the top floor, Irene steeled herself to keep from worrying at her nails or compulsively turning the ring on her middle finger around and around just to have something to do with her hands, something to alleviate the stress, even for a moment.

Mycroft looked up from his desk as Sherlock entered the room, expression decidedly bored until Sherlock slammed both hands on his brother's desk in an uncharacteristic display of emotion.

"Did you see them?"

"Sherlock, what a pleasant surprise," Mycroft said dryly. "Hello to you as well, yes I've been feeling splendid, and thank you for keeping me up to date on the progress of my niece and nephew. Now is there a reason you're making a scene in my office?"

"I need access to all the Heathrow security feeds you have. Now."

"What criminal are you chasing this time?"

"Lily."

"Your nanny?"

"Toby and Sophia are gone," Irene explained swiftly, cutting off a conversation that Sherlock may have brought quickly to blows.

"Gone?"

"You heard her," Sherlock snapped. "There was a note, and all signs point to her leaving Heathrow for America yesterday morning. I need all the tapes you have."

"Your nanny kidnapped my niece and nephew."

"The tapes, Mycroft."

Mycroft dialed the intercom.

"Anthea, connect me to the camera techs for Heathrow."

There was a moment of silence and then a male voice asked, "Sir?" in a hesitant manner.

"I need the tapes of all flights going to America from yesterday."

"She took a morning flight, Mycroft."

"She planned for a morning flight. Things get delayed and canceled and overbooked."

"Sir?" The voice on the intercom asked.

"Tapes. Heathrow Airport. All flights to America. The terminals."

"Right away, sir."

The line clicked off and Mycroft looked at his brother and Irene Adler.

"I need all the information you have."

For perhaps the first time in his life since he was a very young child, Sherlock told his brother everything he knew. Every detail, every deduction, every hunch and thought and logical progression was laid out in quick and precise language for Mycroft. Despite how much the brothers fought, this was a matter of family. Sherlock would not risk losing his children for the sake of his pride and Mycroft would not hold things above his head when Sherlock was earnestly asking for his help in a matter this serious. No pride or argument or childhood rivalry would change the fact that two young Holmes children, (Holmes-Adler, Irene would argue mildly if the time and place were different) were missing and potentially in danger.

They scanned the tapes one by one until Mycroft called sharply,

"11:15AM flight to New York. She has a collapsible stroller."

Both parents rushed over to the screen and watched their nanny hand three tickets to the airline attendant who smiled pleasantly and called someone to help her with the stroller and carry-on bags. Toby was holding her hand with one of his hands and dragging a small, rolling bag behind him with the other. There was only a few seconds with her face clearly visible and Mycroft clicked on it and enlarged it before typing something in on his computer, tapping the intercom button on the phone on his desk.

"Anthea, get me New York."

"Right away, Mr. Holmes."

He pressed another button and waited a moment until a male voice responded.

"I found a picture. Run it though facial recognition of all the cameras we have access to in both here and New York. She's landed in the JFK International Airport, track her as far as you can."

"Sir, the Americans are very touchy about their surveillance footage."

"You should have full access within the next half hour."

"Very good, sir."

"New York is on the line sir,"

"Thank you, Anthea, put her through."

He picked up the phone and help it to his ear.

"The British Government is tracking a nonthreatening fugitive and requires access to the cameras of JFK International airport. No, that's what nonthreatening means." He waited a moment,

"I'm sure that can be arranged if compliance is given freely in this manner. No that won't be necessary. Because American police seem to have a habit of shooting first. I am aware of that, and I'm sure you'll find that this can be smoothed over if I'm given access. I see."

There was another long pause as Mycroft listened to the American woman on the other line.

"Agreed. He's still in British custody, however. And you cannot interrogate him without one of my people there. Yes. That will be fine. I'll have the paperwork sent over. I trust I will be receiving access to JFK's archived tapes in a few minutes? Yes, I'll let my people know. Excellent. Good day."

After he hung up, Mycroft met his brother's eye.

"We'll have access to all the tapes within minutes. Once we find where she went to after the airport, I'll get plane tickets for you."

Irene looked up from her phone, where she was answering a text.

"No need, I already have two spots on a private flight leaving this evening."

Mycroft nodded and hit a few buttons on his computer.

"Regardless of how much planning she put into this, she's only ordinary. She can't keep ahead for long."

_**-Before-**_

_Sherlock was very uncertain about his feelings; the fact that he was having feelings at all was cause for concern, but even more than that, he could feel adrenaline racing in his bloodstream. Though he assured himself that it was a typical animal reaction to a threat of its offspring, swallowing the worry was significantly less simple to do. Lestrade's puzzled face as he handed his phone to Sherlock, John's overly-calm voice on the line, his insistence that Sherlock needed to find Irene and get to the hospital now, these all seemed to blur together as he sat in a black cab beside Irene Adler. He didn't know how she had appeared so quickly and was not questioning her unusually casual clothing, nor did he question the fifty-pound note she handed the cabbie with explicit instructions to get them to the hospital faster than was legal. _

_ The deductions on Irene came in the cab between a flurry of thoughts and questions about his son and what had happened. If John was in the hospital, he would have assumed some sort of medical emergency. If it was his brother, a health issue, probably with his heart, and if it was Irene...well he preferred not to think too deeply about what sort of injuries Irene's line of work might cause. John had been so damned _**vague**_. He repeatedly assured Sherlock that Toby was fine and that Lily was with him and that the doctors were taking excellent care of him, but gave very little description about how Toby had become ill or what was being done to take care of him in the hospital. It was vastly unhelpful and he ended up hanging up rather abruptly on John rather than continue to attempt to pry more information out of him. Once they got to the hospital, information would be easier to come by._

_ After several taxi trips to two different hospitals and Mycroft's office, they arrived at a private hospital which to any average passer-by looked like an office building. The elevator brought them to a floor near the top (third to the top to be precise) and the two Holmes brothers and the Woman entered a small room behind a nurse with a little cart that had a child's supper on it. A translucent plastic sheet covered the bed with rods supporting the edges and Irene rushed over to where Lily's worn trainers emerged from under the oxygen tent. Sherlock's eyes ran over the room as the nanny emerged._

_ "Lily, this is Toby's uncle Mycroft," Irene introduced the nanny and the older Holmes briefly before ducking under the plastic sheet to inspect her son. _

_ Lily made uncomfortable eye contact, chewing her lip as she did when she was nervous, but Toby's cries called her back to the oxygen tent, blessedly free from the x-ray gazes of not one but two Holmeses. Almost exactly a minute later, Irene emerged, looking troubled as she walked over to Sherlock (Eyes unfocused, chin set, mouth pulled into a tight line, steps slightly faster than her usual pace.)_

_ "He asked for you," she sounded more confused than upset and his response was automatic._

_ "Nonsense; Toby can't talk yet."_

_ "Well he just said 'I want Daddy' very clearly. So do shut up and go to your son, he needs you."_

_ His mind raced with the implications that his son who had not spoken a word in his life, used his first understandable sounds to not only build a full, grammatically-correct sentence, but one asking solely for him. As it raced, he made his way over to the oxygen tent and awkwardly ducked under._

_ Lily's face greeted him, looking more flustered than usual, and there, on the bed, was his son._

_ "She said Toby asked for me." (Obvious. Stupid thing to say, but Lily likely wouldn't notice or care.) The dark brown curls—Irene's hair color, only a shade darker—blue eyes, intelligence clouded by a mixture of anxiety and relief at seeing him of all people, it all reminded him of a video his mother loved to show when he was younger; his first skinned knee, an unlikely thing to catch on tape. As his mother had walked over to inspect the bleeding wound, there was a clear shot of his face, startled and distressed mixed with the relief of seeing his mother—this was the face he saw, looking at his son. Gingerly, he stroked Toby's hair._

Parental instinct may be partially self-involved—parents see themselves in their offspring and endangering their offspring is seen indirectly as endangering themselves. Interesting, perhaps_—but his thought was cut off as Toby began to wheeze and his breaths whistled in and out of his lungs in a sound that was quite alarming. _

_ "What do I do?" (Sentiment, but unimportant. Wheezing is not good, so it needs to stop. Focus, therefore, should be on resuming normal breathing in Tobias.)_

_ Things seemed to happen both quickly and slowly; Lily speaking soothingly, calling a nurse, guiding his hands to support Toby to sit in a way that would help him breathe better. It was hours and moments later that the toddler's fingers gripped his own first and middle fingers as Lily sang something he supposed might be soothing but was utterly unfamiliar to him. (Slightly off-key, voice not to a professional caliber; music in school, no private lessons, a voice that would blend well in a choir but was not suited for solos, and whoever Jude was, the girlfriend he had clearly lost was not returning to him.) _

_ Even in sleep, his son's tiny fist clenched around two of his fingers; logically, the grip should loosen when the child lost consciousness, but apparently this was not the case. After Lily finished the song and looked at Toby carefully, inspecting for...uneven breathing? If the IV drip was in securely? He did not know, but when she ducked out from under the tent, wiping sweat from her forehead (it was at least eight degrees warmer under the tent,) and holding it for him, he allowed himself a moment of sentiment. Checking to be sure no one was there, he brushed a sweaty curl from Toby's forehead and gently removed his fingers from the boy's fist; Toby shifted in his sleep but remained unconscious, and Sherlock swallowed and leaned over the little boy, running a fingertip over a plump (baby fat; common in children of Toby's age) rosy (red from fever, the heat of the tent, and likely the emotional strain of the day) cheek, allowing himself to remember his mother's cool hand on his forehead when he was ill as a child, checking for fever, her lips on his cheek, her hands stroking his hair. Shaking himself out of the sentimental stupor, he rearranged his features and stepped out from under the tent, letting Lily give his son one last look before she followed him. _

_ Mycroft and Irene were talking to a doctor; deductions flew from his lips, muttered under his breath as Lily caught a hold of his coat sleeve and had enough confidence to confront him quietly, reminding him that now was not the time or place before letting go as they joined the other adults speaking with the doctor. Words were exchanged and he was about to point out the sheer absurdity of a hospital being entirely secure and his son's identity therefore also being insecure, when Irene thrust her hand into his coat pocket and curled her slim fingers around his, squeezing sharply with enough pressure to get his attention. Her icy glare silenced him, and though he nodded, he felt a flash or sharp irritation at her. _

_ "Anyone for a coffee?" Mycroft's voice pierced his lack of attention and he sniped back thoughtlessly, drifting back into his thoughts, coming back to the present as the elevator made an electronic beeping noise, the doors closing in front of Lily, a coffee in one hand, a twenty pound note in the other, her bag dangling from one arm. _

_ "I see you've deigned us worthy of your presence?" Mycroft said mildly._

_ "Don't you have a government to run?"_

_ "Fortunately, I have instructed Anthea to not bother me with anything less than a national emergency."_

_ The words were scarcely past his lips when his mobile began to ring. Raising an eyebrow at his brother, Sherlock waited expectantly until Mycroft put the phone to his ear._

_ "I suppose this is an emergency? Ah yes, I see. No, you're right of course. I'll be back in fifteen minutes. Yes, get him something to drink and settle him in one of the greeting rooms. Yes, whatever he asks for, within usual guidelines. All right yes. Thank you."_

_ Mycroft pocketed the mobile._

_ "England needs its queen, Mycroft. Go on now." _

_ Irene smirked, not bothering to conceal her amusement at Sherlock's jibe. Not bothering to respond to the remark or the expression, Mycroft pressed the elevator button and stepped into the carriage. _

_ "I'll be back to check on things."_

_ "Please don't."_

_ The evening began with Irene dozing off on the couch, her head in his lap as he absentmindedly stroked her hair. His thoughts raced, thinking about the implications of his sentiment for Toby, the clearly growing tolerance for if not sentiment regarding Ms. Adler, and his rapidly becoming complex life. Toby cried out between wheezes several times and after getting up, comforting him, and returning to the couch at least four times, Sherlock settled on the bed with Toby's head resting on his arm, Irene curled around their son on the other side. Originally, he had placed his hand on her hip to steady her as it wasn't particularly easy to fit all three of them comfortably on the bed, even if it was larger than the average hospital bed. After the need for that had passed, his hand had remained, first because he had nowhere else to put it, and then because it felt pleasantly familiar against his palm. _

_ When he woke, it was early morning and Irene was gone. Gently disentangling himself from his son, he emerged from the oxygen tent to find Lily curled up on the plastic-covered couch, fast asleep. On the table next to her were two paper bags (food of some sort) and a tray containing two cups of coffee (there had been three; Irene took one with her). Confident that she had probably left to shower and change, he made his way out of the hospital room, down the hall, and into the men's room. Though sleep had addled his memories somewhat, he recalled the sensation of his son resting against his chest, the feel of the curve of Irene's hipbone against his palm, the gentle lull of breathing under the oxygen tent's sounds (which were actually rather loud, what with the hum of the high-oxygen air blend being pumped into the space). It evoked yet more sentiment. Splashing more cold water onto his face, Sherlock shook his head to clear it. Things were indeed becoming more complicated._

The flight to America took longer than expected; they hit turbulence several times on the way and the plane before them took several tries to land (new pilot, shouldn't have been flying, more important matters to deal with however), prolonging the travel time. They had left Mycroft with the information of Lily's flight activity, but the software was having difficulty tracking her through the airport. Upon their departure, there was a time line from her arrival until about an hour later, where she had vanished. The current hypothesis was that she was taking a connecting flight.

Upon landing, Mycroft sent them the route she had taken through the airport—a meandering route, stopping for the W.C., food, and in a small play area where film showed both children playing as Lily oversaw them. After this, her trail had gone cold but ten minutes after the dead spot in the trail, she was spotted again checking flight times on a large billboard and heading for Terminal 3 with the children in tow. However, though she sat in the Terminal for an hour and visited each of the gates within it in turn, a repairman fixing two of the lights blocked the main camera for the terminal for twenty minutes, during which two flights boarded, one had last minute-boarding and then takeoff, and early boarding occurred in another.

There were at least two mothers with children on each of the flights and this was where things became muddled. Flight attendants were unlikely to remember a specific mother unless the children were unusually ill-behaved or unusually well-behaved and on top of that, the cameras on the planes were exactly that—on the planes, none of which had yet returned to JFK. They had hit a pause in the electronic trail, which is were Sherlock picked up. As he did with any other case, this one he pursued with single-minded intensity. Irene's people skills came in handy in talking with employees of the airport, people from the play area, the food court, the gates in Terminal 3. After four hours, Sherlock abruptly turned to Irene.

"I need to think."

"There's a hotel room booked nearby. It should have internet access and you can look at everything Mycroft's people have pieced together."

"The information is no longer useful. It has been committed to memory. Do you have any American money? I need cigarettes."

"You know how Americans are about smoking more recently. The hotel is probably smoke-free."

"I'll smoke in the bathroom or I'll pay whatever fee they tack onto the bill, but that's not the point. American money. Cigarettes."

Irene handed him a neatly folded ten dollar bill with some important old white man on the front, which he used a the nearest shop he could get cigarettes from, glad that airports at least had more international brands than the average American shops. He could get English brands here with little trouble and he did so, sighing as he selected low-tar (Irene was going to complain otherwise and he needed to focus on the case) while casting a longing glance at something stronger. Money changed hands, he pocketed the box and the change and didn't say another word until they got to the hotel room.

"Don't bother me."

He vanished into the bathroom. Shortly after the click of a door closing was the distinctive sound of the strike of a match.


	3. Up in Smoke

Up in Smoke

Irene Adler did not knock. It was not in her nature to ask for permission and even the situation they were in did not charge that. She turned the handle of the bathroom door and pushed, meeting the resistance of a lock.

"I said not to bother me." His voice was deep, even through the door.

"It's been eight hours."

"And?"

"I need a shower and the toilet."

"And?"

"Open the door."

There was a long pause before she heard the bolt sliding out of the lock, after which she turned the knob and opened the door to the bathroom. The window was cracked, but the scent of cigarette smoke still lingered in the air.

"Anything?"

Sherlock didn't say anything and Irene flushed away the box-worth of cigarette butts sitting in the toilet bowl before closing the lid and sitting on it.

"You said you needed to use the toilet."

"I lied."

"I'm thinking."

"You've been thinking for eight hours. If your brain hasn't processed everything we've seen and heard at least four times over by now, then you're ill. Now are you going to share your conclusions or not?"

"Not, I think."

"Though you seem to be temporarily forgetting this, they are my children too, Sherlock. You've discussed cases with me before and this is far too important for you to keep anything to yourself. Maybe I'll come to a different conclusion."

"Mycroft should be sending the details of which flight they took shortly."

"You neglected to mention that he was narrowing it down for us."

"You didn't ask."

Shaking off her irritation (worry, anger, fear), Irene shimmied out of her stockings and undid the zip at the back of her dress before slipping it off, followed by her undergarments. Clad in only her skin, she passed Sherlock and turned the knobs of the shower.

"You can fill me in while I wash up."

"There's nothing to fill you in on."

"Then you can wash my back."

"I hardly think this is the time."

"Excellent, then use it to tell me what you've deduced."

Sherlock growled a little, clearing his throat and scowling at the shower curtain that Irene had slipped behind. Her outline was visible as she ran water over her hair and began to work shampoo into it.

"Well?"

"She's going north. The missing clothes, the flights she's taking. Canada, perhaps, but very likely the northern portion of the midwestern United States."

"Why?"

"If I knew why, Irene, I would already have relocated our children. Two of the employees we questioned were liars, but neither of them was lying about Lily or the children. One of them probably would have helped her if she asked, but she didn't. She had a plan."

Rinsing shampoo out of her dark locks, the Woman looked out from behind the shower curtain in time to see Sherlock check his mobile again, looking more anxious than she had seen him in a long while. As he turned his head and caught her gaze, the emotion vanished behind a cool exterior. She studied his impassive face for a long moment before returning her attention to washing herself, conditioning her hair, gently scrubbing the dirt and discomfort of travel from her skin. The routine was soothing; it helped her to clear her head. She did not know what was going to happen or why any of the events had occurred as they did but she did know her own body and unlike her companion she understood that taking care of herself ensured that she was in top form.

"Do you know how long she was planning this?"

"How did we not see this coming?"

"Sherlock—"

"We're both intelligent, perceptive, observant individuals. We see her every day. I regularly deduce what she and Toby did throughout the day and how many times Sophia woke her up the previous night. _We should have seen this coming_."

Irene paused, hearing the tightness, the restrained emotion in Sherlock's voice. Spreading lather over her face to clear the dirt from her pores, she replied, her eyes closed so she did not have to watch Sherlock Holmes hold himself together.

"She's only ordinary, you said. Perhaps we misjudged her. Or perhaps she had help."

"She wouldn't have taken them if she thought they would be hurt. She must have been tricked; Lillian was too trusting at times."

"Or she was cleverer than she let on."

"She had a great deal of literary, historic, and botanical knowledge, but nothing that would help her abduct children."

"Perhaps we're looking at the wrong things."

Irene rinsed her hair, clearing it of conditioner before gently rubbing her skin over once again with a cloth, removing any traces of the travel and with it, the frustration of the case (or as much of it as she could manage.)

"Meaning?"

"What do historians and bibliophiles look to for advice?"

"Of course," Sherlock breathed, rushing from the bathroom to retrieve his laptop from the bag he had neglected, plugging it into the wall and starting it up. As Irene rinsed and dried herself, Sherlock sent out several messages and requests of information before scrolling through a list of titles.

"And?" Irene asked, one towel knotted in her hair, the other draped over one shoulder as she opened her bag to retrieve fresh clothing.

"Based on the library records and ebook purchases and loans she made, they're aiming for Montana. She prepared for all of this—strategy, living off the grid, famous crimes of history, the psychology of crime. Why did I not think of this before, God I'm stupid stupid stupid, the brain's lagging, I should have worked that out by now."

"Emotional interference perhaps?"

"I've compartmentalized."

"Lack of sleep, food, and an excess of stress as well as dehydration do to travel."

"Good, glass of water. The brain works slower when the body is dehydrated, should have thought of that."

When he returned from the bathroom after downing several tall glasses of water, she was dressed casually, comfortably, and very unlike herself.

"Why on earth are you dressed like that?"

"You're an arse."

"How does that effect your choice in clothing?"

"People don't want to tell you things. But the nice lady from Kansas who's looking for her runaway daughter and grandchildren? They want to help her." Irene's voice seamlessly slipped on an American accent.

"You're not old enough to be Lily's mother."

"Give me a few minutes with my makeup and I will be."

"You don't stand like a woman over fifty."

"I don't have to be over fifty. I had her when I was very young."

"And I am?"

"Shutting up and getting all the information from Mycroft that you can."

"We already interviewed the employees."

"An abrasive Englishman and his pretty companion did, giving no reasons why they were looking for a young woman with two children. When the flight attendants return, they can meet a mother searching for her family—much more sympathetic than foreigners with questions."

"I will not sit here and wait for my brother to call."

"Get some sleep then."

"Damn it Irene, these are my children as well. I will not sit here and wait for answers to come and I will not let this case be hampered by the ignorant and the uninterested."

His voice was loud, suddenly, and angry, and if it had been any other situation, they would be playing the game right now, battling for control. But here and now, knowing that any sympathy would be slapped aside, Irene merely looked away, allowing the great detective to pull himself together yet again. She wasn't sure she wanted to witness what would happen when everything he continued to push down came roaring back out.

_"Your brother certainly thinks highly of himself."_

_ Sherlock snorted as the cab started to roll. Lily sat Toby on her lap as Irene and Sherlock sat beside each other and shortly after being seated, Toby climbed from Lily's lap to his mother's, where he played with her jewelry for a short time before climbing onto his father's lap and reaching tiny hands into the pockets of his coat, searching for something of interest._

_ He had extracted Sherlock's magnifying glass, a nicotine patch, and what looked like a lockpick set before the cab pulled up to the address (several blocks from the house) and dropped the group off at a curb. Irene paid the cabbie as Sherlock restocked his pockets and he and Irene walked back to the house on a separate route from Lily and Toby. As they strolled, Irene turned to the detective._

_ "He asked for you."_

_ "I recall."_

_ There was a moment of silence before Irene spoke again._

_ "He's not lagging developmentally, he merely chooses to speak only when necessary."_

_ "Obvious."_

_ Irene shot Sherlock a dark look._

_ "Considering the concern I had about our son having developmental delays, I thought it prudent to say something out loud. I never know if information about Toby is considered important enough to keep in that mind room of yours."_

_ "Palace," Sherlock corrected tightly. "And the next time you attempt to insult my devotion to my offspring, do be more subtle. It's what you're good at, supposedly."_

_ Irene knew that the past few days had been rough on both of them and that they were both tired and sore, but that did not keep her from snapping back._

_ "If I was more subtle, I doubt you'd notice Mr. Holmes. It's not your area."_

_ "Irrelevant and not my area are two different things."_

_ Irene bit back her response, instead seizing Sherlock's scarf and pulling him to a halt._

_ "If you want to be an arse, fine. Bury the _**sentiment**_ you felt with Toby in the hospital, regardless if it's human instinct to be concerned about _**offspring**_. Don't attempt to redirect your frustration with yourself onto me; there's plenty of denial locked in your skull to fit in a little more."_

_ "I don't," Sherlock began, but his brain rushed through the conversation, his damnable sentiment and the John Watson that frequently stepped into his head interrupting his train of thought. John's voice offered (useless) advice. _

Regardless of how much you block this out, she is the mother of your child and you both went through a scare. Stop being an arse and talk to her like a normal person if you can manage that.

_ Sherlock shook his head to clear away John's voice, scowling._

_ "We are both lacking sleep, food, and have been through a stressful time."_

_ She knew it was the closest thing she was getting to an apology, and was shocked when Sherlock gently removed her hands from his scarf and offered her one, looking as though he had swallowed something awful. _

_ More because she knew it had taken him more than he would let on to offer another person anything of his, let alone his hand, Irene took it and they continued walking in silence. Both minds, though connected by a hand clasping another, raced. As unlikely as it seemed, they both were thinking along the same lines—about sentiment._

_ Perhaps it was the fatigue. Perhaps it was the sentiment embedded in the care of their son, curled up on a hospital bed all together for a night—more than a night, several nights in a row. Perhaps it was the unity of two people against an opposing force, be it disease or Mycroft Holmes. Perhaps it was a mixture of all of these, or none at all. Sherlock's mind was processing, sorting, trying to compartmentalize the new experiences and fit them into his system, frequently pausing to remember that for the first time since he was a small boy, he was holding someone's hand. It was unusual, it was unlike him. It was very likely a fluke. _

_ Irene Adler's brain was desperately trying to process whatever the hell Sherlock was doing. Things were changing, and Sherlock was no longer as predictable as she had come to expect. He was occasionally affectionate, like now, with frequent regressions into his expected standoffish Sherlock-ness. She understood the why, but that did not make dealing with a man attempting to come to terms with his humanity and the emotions that came with it any easier. If they were any semblance of normal, they would talk about it. Sherlock, however, did not discuss emotion and Irene's patience now was wearing thin. Perhaps some other time, though she doubted it._

_ When they arrived at the house, Irene settled herself into a chair to watch Toby play with blocks. As soon as her body settled into the plush cushions, Irene could feel sleep pulling at her, but forced her eyes to remain open. Sherlock followed her and was nearly in the playroom when his phone rang._

_ "John? Yes, he's fine. No, nothing serious. Just Mycroft being an ass."_

_ Lily shot him a look, mouthing, 'Not in front of Toby' at him, but he ignored it, waving a dismissive hand at her._

_ "A what? Tell me."_

_ He nodded for a minute or so._

_ "No that sounds brilliant. Meet me there."_

_ He slipped the phone back into his pocket._

_ "John has a case."_

_ It was as though their moments on the walk back to the house had never occurred. Sherlock's face was alight with the gleeful anticipation, a hound with the scent of prey in his nose. _And that,_ Irene thought dryly to herself, _is why it will always be this dance between us. No matter how many children he sires or if he allows himself to feel sentiment, he already has a lover more influential than any of that—crime. She will never leave him, never fail to fascinate and she will always be there no matter where he goes or how old he gets.

_Sherlock strode purposefully towards the door and pulled on his coat before coming back into the playroom and crouching beside his son. Irene attempted to focus, but her eyelids were heavy and she allowed them to shut, assuring herself it was just for a moment._

_ "I've got a case. I'll be back tomorrow, all right?"_

_ Toby nodded solemnly at his father who gingerly ran his hand over the boy's head. He recalled his childhood, his father's total lack of understanding of him, and in a flash of fear, he wondered if Toby's life would be that way as well. Sherlock ran his hand over his son's head again, less gingerly this time, rumpling the dark curls that so closely resembled his own. After a moment of hesitation that seemed like an eternity to him (but was no more than two and a half seconds), he stood and turned to Irene, whose eyelids had closed only moments before. Before he could overthink it, before he could think about it at all, he pressed a kiss to her forehead and half-ran out the door, nearly knocking Lily over in the process. Once he had gone, Lily glanced at Irene's face, which relaxed into a smile. Her breathing was slow and even, sleeping deeply for the first time in days. Scooping up Toby, Lily carried him from the playroom._

_ "Come on Toby, your mummy needs to sleep. Let's go into the sitting room and I'll read you a story."_

_ When Sherlock returned to following night, things became more confusing. He rushed in, kissed Irene, dashed up the stairs to spin Toby around, announcing he was the key to solving it, shouted something about looking at slides in the Baker Street flat, and rushed back out. Biting her tongue to keep from shouting in frustration (Toby was nearly asleep before Sherlock had rushed in and riled him up) Lily told him another story and settled him into bed before returning to the sitting room carrying a bottle of wine._

_ The conversation with Irene was tense and short, but when Lily left, Irene sat in the sitting room a long while with her glass of wine, just thinking. Sherlock hadn't shown real affection, something other than platonic affection (which for Sherlock, was unusual except for Mrs. Hudson) since the conception of their son. It was so bloody confusing, inconsistent, erratic, everything Sherlock was not. He was methodical, scientific, irritatingly single-minded and it was not like him to change his mind back and forth, to behave one way towards a person and then completely differently. When she showered that night, she closed her eyes and took a few breaths. She would take a few clients, something to make her feel more herself. Discreetly of course, she had a few places she could go to meet clients, one of which she owned under another name. So many problems could be solved with the crack of leather on flesh and impractically high stiletto heels. If she had her way, Sherlock Holmes would be one of them. But until then, her job was always an enjoyable pastime._

The airport employees were just as useless as they had been the day before, though kinder and attempting to be more helpful for the poor Kansas mother. The flight attendants recalled no one who looked like Lily, though they cross-checked through departments and asked around far more than they had from the abrasive foreigners. The tapes Mycroft recovered from the aircraft(s) were focused more towards tracking suspicious movements rather than faces; the quality was low and blurry, making the plane appear as though it was steeped in fog, blurring faces and obscuring useful details. Every passenger they ran came up with nothing new and Sherlock sat in front of his laptop once they returned, scanning through the tapes over and over again until-

"There," his finger hit the screen with a soft click and Irene turned from the papers she had spread out before her on the bed, a painfully bright ray of hope running through her like a live wire.

"What?"

"Lily's height, two children."

"Why didn't anyone see this before?"

"Sophie slept the whole way; the carrier is covered, see?"

"Then how did you know?"

"She got up several times to take a child to the bathroom and if you look," he tapped the screen again, pointing to an object in the small boy's hand, blurry and out of focus, but clearly a plush toy with two long ears.

"His bunny."

"Security blankets are unique and I've had the misfortune of fishing that rabbit out of several undesirable locations. That's it."

Irene was already packing her things.

"I'll make a call. We should have a flight to wherever they're going by morning."

"You have contacts here?"

Irene looked at him archly, the first glimpse of her old self he had seen since the disappearance of their children.

"I have contacts everywhere."

"Helena Regional Airport. I'll tell Mycroft to get all the tapes. If this is where she leaves from, tracking her is going to get a bit more difficult."

"We tracked the spider's web down piece by piece. I think we can handle a nanny."

The words tasted bitter on her tongue.


End file.
